With Our Voices Raised
by Wagnetic
Summary: Non-powered modern AU. Preteen choir!fic. Erik's synagogue teams up with Charles' church for the multicultural festival. Erik hates the festival and he's prepared to hate Charles, but as it turns out, his singing partner might not be so bad.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Ok, to be honest, I've refrained from writing Charles as a disabled character for fear that I'd somehow mess up and offend someone. I think this is probably an irrational fear, since I'm not planning on writing anything negative or controversial, but nevertheless, if at any point I do offend someone, let me know (gently, please!) and I'll correct my mistakes.

* * *

"But Mama, I feel sick," Erik complained from the back seat. His mother glanced in the rear-view and rolled her eyes at him.

"You were just fine yesterday when you went to Janos' house, boychik. You'll do fine. Just take a deep breath."

Erik said nothing, opting to stare out the window instead. He'd been dreading this day for weeks. The annual multicultural festival had always annoyed him with its obnoxious "It's a Small World" brand of cheer, but this year was even worse because he was going to have to be part of it. His temple had agreed to team up with the local Catholic church to provide music, and to top it off, they'd decided to combine the children's choruses for the opening. Erik liked everything about his choir, from the smell of the classroom where they usually practiced to the complex melodies and Hebrew words that he didn't usually understand. He didn't want it corrupted by the festival's phony nature.

To make matters worse, he was going to have to sing with _Charles Xavier_. Cantor Friedman had been _very_ emphatic in telling Erik how well he and Charles were going to get along, which had only succeeded in confirming his suspicions that Charles must be a real brat. After all, it wasn't as if Erik was a troublemaker who needed to be reminded to play nice with the boys from the church. He was perfectly happy to sing with the children from the synagogue as long as they left him alone and knew not to disturb him during breaks, and he didn't see why things should be any different with this Charles kid.

Apparently, everyone else felt differently though, because it wasn't just Cantor Freidman who was singing his praises. Every adult involved with the festival seemed to feel a compulsive need to tell Erik how great Charles was. From what everyone had been telling him, Erik had gathered enough information about Charles to thoroughly loathe him. Charles Francis Xavier (whose name alone was stuffy and irritating) was some kind of child prodigy and was in the seventh grade at some prestigious private school even though he was only ten years old. The adults all described him as "charming," "polite," "enthusiastic," and "sweet." Erik was sure that this actually meant that Charles was a spoiled suck-up who was used to being able to get away with absolutely anything.

When the car stopped, Erik stayed perfectly still, as though maybe he could convince his mother to forget about dropping him off as long as she didn't sense any movement. No such luck.

"Erik, stop brooding and get out of the car."

"I'm not—"

"Erik." Edie was using the voice that said, 'I love you, but I'm very tired, and if you keep this up, I _will_ get up and drag you in there myself,' and that really didn't leave much room for argument.

"Okay, alright, I'm going."

"Have a good time, honey. And be good, okay?"

"Yeah, right," Erik muttered under his breath. He waved goodbye, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed up the stairs to the church. It still seemed wrong to him that they had to practice in the church, even though the cantor had tried to explain to him that they were only using it because it was larger than the synagogue. Erik was suspicious of this excuse. They really ought to be meeting in a neutral space, after all.

When he opened the door, however, he could understand the point about space. It was a large group of children, and there were definitely too many of them to fit comfortably on the bimah. Erik shrank back a bit, looking over all the unfamiliar faces. Maybe he could sneak away and just spend the whole evening reading in the courtyard. It was possible that everyone would be so busy that they wouldn't notice his absence, wasn't it? Probably not, but he could at least give it a shot. One of the kids from his temple waved at him, though, which meant that he'd missed his chance. Damn.

"Erik," Cantor Friedman called to him, "come meet Charles!" Her voice was just a note too bright, and it grated in his ears. She was a nice enough lady, and Erik appreciated that she put in the effort to run the choir, but sometimes she was just as frustrating as everyone else. Erik just wanted to turn and walk away, but his mother had said to be good, so he obeyed, counting five deep breaths as he came to stand by her side. He kept his eyes down, hoping to make it clear that he wasn't interested in interacting any more than he had to. She put a hand on his shoulder, as if to anchor him to the spot.

"Say hello, Erik," she urged. Two deep breaths, and then two more.

"Hello."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Erik." Right away, Erik noticed two things: one, that the other boy had an English accent, and two, that the voice was coming from point lower to the ground than he had expected. Hesitantly, he looked up to examine Charles. The boy had a freckled face, blue eyes, a dark mop of hair, and—oh, he was seated in a wheelchair. That explained the height, then, and maybe why everyone seemed so desperate for Erik to like him. Adults always seemed to have a special weepy fondness for kids who were sick or disabled. Strange, since they didn't seem to be especially fond of other adults who shared the same qualities.

Charles was looking at him with his head cocked slightly to the side, and a knowing little smile on his face. "You won't shake, then?" Erik didn't like shaking hands, but he took Charles', and was relieved to find that at least the boy didn't shake like a total brat. His grip was firm, but not tight enough to be uncomfortable. As if he could sense Erik's discomfort with being observed, Charles turned to the cantor and remarked, "I was talking with Emma earlier, and I think she had an idea you might like. She's the taller blond one in that group by the corner." The cantor smiled at him and excused herself, leaving Erik alone with Charles.

"Thanks for getting rid of her."

Charles gave him a sly smile. "Well, Emma really did have a good idea. And I want to keep her away from my sister, Raven. Emma's great, but she's kind of a bad influence."

"Has anyone ever told you that you talk like an old man?"

"Yeah, but I can't help it. It's just how I am. Bring over a chair."

Erik did, without hesitation. There was something about Charles' tone that just made him want to cooperate. An uncomfortable silence settled over them as Erik tried to figure out what to say. He'd never been any good at starting conversations with other kids, and Charles clearly wasn't much the other kids anyway. Everything about him, from his speech to his expressions, seemed slightly wrong for a ten-year-old boy.

"Nice sweater," Erik attempted to say without sarcasm. It _was_ a nice shade of blue, but it looked like the kind of thing that belonged in a prep school uniform instead of a child's wardrobe.

"Thanks. Raven says it brings out my eyes… She also said it was too fancy, but I wanted to look my best to meet everybody today." Erik glanced at Charles' chair, and the other boy must have noticed because his smile changed subtly and he continued, "You can ask. Everybody does."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Honestly, I'd just rather have people ask me how it happened and get it over with. The weird looks are harder to deal with."

Erik shook his head stubbornly. "I won't ask. It doesn't matter. It's just how you are, and you don't owe anyone an explanation." To his surprise, Charles laughed. "What?" Erik snapped. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, you're right. It's just that you're the first kid to say that to me. Grown-ups say things like that, but they're just trying to be nice. You actually mean it, though."

"How do you know?"

"I'm good at reading people. When you said I didn't owe anyone an explanation, you were really mad. I'm guessing it's something you can relate to."

"Yeah, it is." Erik had been remembering an incident the previous year, when he'd confided in Sebastian that he'd had a little crush on Janos. Sebastian's face had gone completely still, and then he'd started with the questions: 'But didn't you like Magda last year? So how did you start liking boys all of a sudden? Did you ever like me? You better not have watched me changing!' Erik had refused to speak to Sebastian after that. By the next week, rumors had started up around the school, and some of his classmates had begun to give him strange looks.

"It's alright, my friend." When Charles rested a hand on Erik's shoulder, it felt very different from when the cantor had done it.

"'My friend?' Really?"

This time, it didn't bother him when Charles laughed. "I think we're going to be great friends!"

Strangely, Erik found himself thinking that they just might.


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks later, on Tuesday night, Erik was sitting on his bed, cursing his algebra homework, when the phone rang. Generally Erik just let it go to voice mail if his mother didn't pick it up, but he was glad to have an excuse to take a break from solving quadratic equations.

"Hello?"

"Erik? It's Charles."

"Yeah, I can tell." Erik rolled his eyes and sprawled back to stare at the ceiling. "I don't have a lot of friends with English accents." Or a lot of friends at all, come to that, but he wasn't about to say as much.

"Have you thought about what you want to sing for the fest? We can do pretty much anything as long as it fits the general theme."

At this point, most of the other kids had already started rehearsing, but Charles and Erik had spent the last two meetings talking about almost everything _but_ their song. Erik now knew that Charles lived with his mother, stepsister, stepfather, and stepbrother. He also knew that Charles had skipped second grade and fourth grade, and that his favorite color was yellow. However, Erik still had no idea what they were going to sing for the festival.

"We'll never get away with singing something that's actually any good," Erik huffed. "They just want us to something cheesy about how everyone can get along and be happy together. The whole thing's a joke."

"There's nothing wrong with people getting along," Charles protested. "Aren't you happier when you're getting along with everybody?"

"I never get along with _everybody_, Charles. Some people are just assholes."

"Nobody's _just_ an asshole," Charles said sternly, but Erik was too busy laughing to hear the rest of Charles' speech. "What's so funny? Erik! Why are you laughing at me?"

"I'm not laughing at you," Erik choked out, "it's just really funny to hear you say 'asshole.' You pronounce it all weird."

"Weird_ly_," Charles corrected, but there was a smile in his voice.

"I haven't come up with anything good for us to sing, anyway."

"I was going to suggest All You Need Is Love by The Beatles, but—"

Erik interrupted him with a groan. "No way!"

"I knew you'd say that. Here Comes The Sun?"

"Now you're just torturing me for the hell of it!"

"Maybe a little. No Beatles?"

"No Beatles."

"Well, what kind of music do you like to listen to? Maybe a band you like has a song we could use."

Erik thought of his iPod, filled mostly with heavy metal albums and the occasional moody alt/rock song. "I don't think so. They're not very… Touchy-feely." Erik was almost sure that Charles was rolling his eyes now.

"Just keep thinking about it. I'm sure you'll come up with something."

"Maybe."

After a moment, Charles took a breath and asked hesitantly, "What you said the day we met… About not needing to explain, remember? I want to know what you were thinking about." As if he could somehow sense Erik's tension through the phone, he continued, "I know it's a big thing to ask for. You don't have to tell me or anything, but… Just if you ever feel like talking about it…"

"It's just not something I talk to everyone about, you know?"

"I get it. You don't really trust people much, do you?"

Erik wished he could see Charles' face. It might have given him some kind of clue as to what Charles was getting at. Why was he asking about this all of a sudden? What did he want?

"I guess not. Never had any reason to."

Erik was fairly certain that Charles' silence was more unnerving than any possible retort could have been. If the younger boy would just say something, Erik might have some idea what he was dealing with. Charles was so damn frustrating! He didn't act like any kid Erik had ever met, but he didn't act like an adult, either. Erik never had a decent point of reference to hold Charles against, so he remained a complete mystery.

"You think I'm weird, don't you?" Charles asked. His voice remained even: not hurt or angry, not even truly curious. He asked as though it was a mere formality and he already knew the truth. And he asked as though that didn't bother him even the littlest bit.

"Well yeah. I keep forgetting that you're only ten, for one thing. Most ten-year-olds I know are complete babies. And you ask too many questions." _And you know too much,_ he continued in the privacy of his own head.

"I'm glad you don't think I'm a baby."

"It really doesn't bother you that I think you're weird?"

"Nope. I know everyone thinks so, but you're the only one who'll say it. I like that."

Erik's hands suddenly felt hot and sweaty, and he rubbed them on the knees of his jeans. "That's what I mean," he said. "You're a real freak, Charles. Nobody says that kind of stuff."

"I'm not a freak; I'm a genius. There's a difference."

"You're a brat."

"You're a grump."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are! You're a gloomy old man."

"I'm not the one who wears frumpy sweaters."

"Don't bring my sweaters into this!"

They both came to the realization that they were being completely ridiculous at the same time, and they collapsed in a mutual fit of laughter. Well, Erik insisted it was laughter. Charles protested that Erik had definitely been giggling.

From the other side of the phone, Erik heard a little girl's voice saying something that sounded like, "Come on, Kurt's head's gonna explode."

"What's going on over there?"

"Raven says I have to go eat dinner. Her father doesn't like it when we keep him waiting. I'll talk to you soon, though." There was a thump and a distant "ok, I'm going! Hang on!" and then silence came through over the line.

Erik sat up in his bed and thought about how damn cute Charles was and almost felt a little guilty about it. Almost. Mostly he just wished he'd asked Charles to help him with his math problems.


End file.
